


From Here till the End

by apanoplyofsong



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8852809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: Bellamy tries something like a smile, crooked at the edges. “Now, go take a shower. Your hair looks disgusting.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kacka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/gifts), [enoughtotemptme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/gifts).



> Kac and Julia asked/dared me to.  
> Apparently there's not supposed to be time between seasons 3 and 4, but this is at least between the scenes that we've seen. Title from "[In A Blackout](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Sko_A6dU_U)."

“Clarke.”

“Bellamy.”

He leans against the table she’s working at, crosses his arms. The surface is covered with overlaying maps, charts and graphs they’ve stared at a dozen times already.

It doesn’t stop her from staring at them still.

“Can you just go? Please?”

Clarke doesn’t bother to look up, just flicks a brow. “Why?”

“Because, Clarke, you can’t defend everyone if you aren’t even taking care of yourself.”

She raises her head at that, blue eyes wide in protest. “That’s not true.”

“Really? You only eat because it’s with me, I don’t think you’ve gotten more than six hours of sleep this _week_ , and have you even showered since the tower?”

“You don’t still see me covered in black blood, do you?”

His brow furrows and he frowns at her, studies the greasy mess of her hair. She let Abby cut out the worst of the braids so it was left hanging just past her shoulders, but the blonde of it is still dulled by dirt, still snarled and matted in spots.

She still carries weariness like an aura. They’re trying to find land, trying to stop meltdowns, trying to do anything, and he can’t blame her, but. She’s still struggling, just being back. Just being human.

He can try to help.

Bellamy wraps a hand around her shoulder, digs his thumb into the muscle he knows carries the weight of their decisions. “Come on,” he says, and she glances down.

“Bellamy…”

“Nothing’s changed in the two hours you’ve been here. Nothing’s going to change in the next 20 minutes. And, if it does, Raven won’t stop at me to make sure you know.” He tries something like a smile, crooked at the edges. “Now, go take a shower. Your hair looks disgusting.”

She snorts. The sound is quiet above the buzz of the solar lamp and she loops her hand across his wrist, squeezes once before grabbing hold. He slides his hand into hers to tug her up and she rises, lets him guide her through the hall to his apartment with their fingers latched loosely together.

The water is already running. He can feel the damp of it in the air, clinging to his curls and twisting them tighter, can feel the moment Clarke hesitates behind him in the clutch of her hand. When he looks over his shoulder, she’s fidgeting slightly, chewing at the swell of her bottom lip.

“I should probably be doing something else. There’s so much going on, and you know my mom needs help prepping medical in case more people start getting sick, and...I don’t need to look at the maps, but I should do _something_.”

Bellamy takes her by the shoulders, turns so she’s between him and the bathroom door. “You are doing something. You’re taking ten minutes not to think and to take a shower. No one will begrudge you that.”

She lifts a brow at him, unimpressed.

“Okay, so maybe a few will, but they won’t begrudge you getting clean. Seriously, have you seen your hair? Camp morale will definitely benefit from you brushing it.”

Clarke huffs, cocks her hip, and for one brilliant second it’s like the girl he used to know before the earth kept them broken is unveiling herself again. “So, what, are you going to stand outside the door until I can be deemed sufficiently clean?”

“Yep.” He spins her around, pushes her gently towards the door. “Now, go.”

The only benefit of the world ending again is that the reactors produce plenty of latent heat for the engineers to capture for the water tanks. A haze swirls around Clarke as she steps through, gold and glowing in the light, and Bellamy moves forward accordingly, crosses his arms when she eyes him through a crack in the door as if to slip around him. She shakes her head but it’s fond, and he lets himself relax against the wall when the latch clicks.

For a while, there’s just the thrum of the water through the pipes, the sound of it falling against the steel and clay of the stall and his mind gets lost in it, lulled by the empty noise and the smell of the soap Monty taught people to cook in the kitchens with lye and oil and herbs, new and familiar all at once. There’s a moment just before the water shuts off where he thinks he hears Clarke humming but he doesn’t comment on it, just hands a worn towel through when her arm reaches out.  

She emerges damp and barefoot, soft without the armor of her jacket and boots. Patches of skin shine where the water clings and a wave of warm air comes behind her, tickles his cheeks. Her face is flushed and the towel is draped across her shoulders, collecting moisture where her hair drips upon it, but her eyes look lighter, her shoulders less heavy.

“Do I pass inspection?”

He hums. “Almost.”

Bellamy pats the space beside him on the narrow bunk when he sits and she pads over, draws her legs under before she sits. She turns without being asked and lets her hair fall down her back. It’s dark with the water, straight and curling in turns from the weight, but Bellamy picks up a strand, can see the brightness shining through.

He lets his fingers ease through the knots, combing the waves up to her scalp as gently as he can. They’re quiet, content to sit in the hum of the generator and the shift of each other’s bodies against the mattress, and it’s calming, sitting with each other like this. Familiar. Easy.

Those are things they don’t get much of these days.

Clarke lets herself lean into the touch, head lolling into his fingertips as he brushes the hair away from her face. There’s something tender about her like this, comfortable in the light of his room, devoid of the ramparts she carries for everyone else. There’s none of the wariness, no edge of the certitude she strives to project around everyone else. There’s just Clarke: strong but fraying, tired but still trying harder than anyone he knows.

When he’s done, she lays her head against his shoulder. It’s a warm weight he’s come to know from the nights that neither of them sleep and it soothes him in turn, a reminder of the things they’re still fighting for. She takes a deep breath, the muscles of her body going lax while they have the chance.

“Thanks, Bellamy.”

He drops his head down against hers, places his hand atop her own.

“Anytime, Clarke.” He closes his eyes, soaks in the moment before they have to return to their plans. “Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll get back to Christmas fics now, just had to write about the most important part of the trailer (CLARKE GRIFFIN WASHED HER HAIR). You can find me on [tumblr](apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com).


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